


There Might Be Another You

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The French Mistake, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Fix-It, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Season/Series 06, Seriously Mixed Metaphors, accidental infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Sometimes it takes being chucked into an alternate universe to see what’s been staring you right in the face.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://t.co/E32wb02mxd).

Look, when you’ve put your fist in the face of the Apocalypse, when you’ve watched your brother die, when you’ve had your whole life ripped out through your nostrils more than once and reassembled by forces unknown, it takes a lot to surprise you, to be shaken up by whatever bullshit the universe chooses to hurl your way.

But being thrown headfirst into another fucking dimension, one where your life is a low-rated TV show and the guy who plays you wears more makeup than Princess Diana? Even in my book, that makes for a weird fucking day.

It all started out normal, or what’d become normal, anyway: with yet another fight between me and Captain Covert Ops.

“What is your problem?” I shouted. “We’re a team, damn it. We’re here to help you! Why the hell won’t you let us?”

We were in the kitchen at Bobby’s. Cas was holding up the wall and I was prowling uneasy by the sink. It was dark out, cold, and the crap light over the table wasn’t doing much to beat back either.

Cas scowled at me, his arms folded like a six-foot toddler. “If I need your help, I’ll ask.”

“Really? You’ve been singing that song for months, Cas. _Months_. I’m calling bullshit.”

“Heaven is tearing itself apart at the seams, Dean! You’ll forgive me if I doubt your ability to affect any sort of meaningful difference in a battle between celestial beings.”

I threw up my hands. “So you’re not calling because we can’t help, and we can’t help because you don’t call. Fucking A+ logic there, Aristotle. Real smart stuff.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Cas said.

“You’re being impossible!”

I felt like the top of my head was gonna pop off. We’d had some version of this argument a half dozen times before, but this go-round was the most goddamn infuriating yet.

I stomped across the kitchen and got right in Cas’ face. He didn’t flinch.

“Look at you, man!” I said. “Your vessel looks like shit.” I mean, his trenchcoat was singed like he’d been fire-walking with Tony Robbins and there was a slash on his cheek that really brought out his black eye. “I don’t know a hell of a lot about how angels work, but I’m thinking that ain’t a good sign.”

“We’re at war, Dean. Injury is inevitable.”

That stopped me cold. He sounded—not like Cas at all. He sounded defeated. Resigned.

I grabbed his shoulder, ignored it when he bristled. “That’s my point. You’re at war. You need allies. We’re here, on the bench, ready for you to tap us in.”

Something zipped across his face, something that made his mouth soft, his eyes a lot less like ice. “It’s not your fight.”

“Yes, it is! Your fight, our fight. Same difference.”

He laughed, low and kind of awful. “Big difference, actually.” He snagged his fingers in my sleeve, his nails chasing over the plaid. “If Raphael’s forces can hurt me like this, what do you think they’ll do to you? And that’s before they reopen the Cage.”

This close, I could smell the brimstone on his clothes, the blood on his skin. “Cas,” I said. “Castiel. Let me help. Please. I fucking hate arguing with you.”

He closed his eyes and teetered, his body tipping towards me. “You have to trust me,” he said. “It’s important to me that you and Sam are safe. Can you not understand that?”

The air drew in around us, like the kitchen was holding its breath. “Yes,” I said, catching his other shoulder for balance. “Yeah, I get that.”

Cas sighed and god, he looked so human right then. A human in need of a week-long siesta. “Good. So.” His eyes fell open. “Trust me when I say that you can’t help me, Dean. Not right now.”

I wanted to say _bullshit_. I wanted to say _why are you being so fucking squirrely_? I wanted to say that it didn’t matter, what the odds were, that I’d feel a hell of a lot better with an angel blade in my hand than I did twiddling my thumbs in Bobby’s living room, waiting for some celestial bat-signal that might never come.

“I’ll try,” I said. “That’s the best I can do. I trust you. You know I do. I’m just—I worry about you, is all.”

He made a sound like broken glass and pulled on my sleeve and for a split second—

For a split second, I thought he was gonna kiss me.

Which was ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t. This was Cas, who wore his trenchcoat like a nun’s habit, a guy who made the Puritans look like Britney Spears. This was Cas, my best-if-often-inscrutable friend who happened to be an angel and who I definitely did not want to kiss me.

Right?

“I have to go,” he said.

“Wait, Cas, I—”

And then I was clutching at nothing.

“What the hell!” I said to the air, to the general direction of his fucking retreat. “You can’t just peace out in the middle of a sentence, dude!” I booted the baseboard, frustrated. Shoved at a few kitchen chairs. “Goddamn it, Cas!”

Sam stuck his head in. “Why are you yelling at the appliances?”

“I’m not yelling.”

“Did Cas leave?”

“No, Sam, I’m hiding him under the sink.”

His face went full-on frown. “Dude, what’s your problem?”

I pushed past him, made a beeline for the screen door. “Just—none of your damn business, ok?”

I grabbed my coat from the peg and barreled outside, into the junkyard. Leaned against the least rusty thing in sight and took a deep breath. Glared up at the stars for a minute.

Something in my chest was doing cartwheels and my heart was tap dancing like crazy. My head hurt. My hands did, too.

I kinda wished I was still holding on to Cas, for some reason.

Damn it.

I scrubbed at my face.

Cas was holding back something, no doubt. Honestly, he’d seemed off for ages, ever since he’d come back from his yearlong angel summer camp or whatever, since he’d deigned to walk among the lowly humans again.

The things was, I’d almost gotten used it, this new Cas, had almost lulled myself into accepting him as like the new status quo. But tonight, for a moment, he’d seemed like his old self. Like the guy who’d sat too close and stared too long and generally made me all kinds of good uncomfortable in ways I’d never really understood.

And fuck, I’d missed him. I hadn’t realized how much until I caught a glimpse of him again. Maybe that’s why I’d had to reach out, had to put my hands on him and hold on. To remind myself that he was real. I think I’d almost convinced myself that he’d never existed.

I heard the screen door slam open. “Dean?” Bobby shouted, his voice ringing in the dark. “Boy, you still got my keys? We’re out of Jamison. And Jack. And Wild Turkey. I gotta go to the store. This is a goddamn emergency.”

I sighed, ducked my head into the wind, and trudged back towards the house. “Yeah, I got ‘em,” I called. “Slow your roll, old man. You might break something.”

I came around the corner and had barely gotten the damn things out of my pocket before he zipped off the porch and practically mugged me.

“You drank the Wild Turkey?” I said as he rolled by. “The devil’s piss? Really?”

“I can’t read Aramaic sober,” he spat. “It just cannot be done.” He hit his truck and made a face at me. “Don’t touch the book on my desk. Either of you. Hell, don’t fucking _breathe_ near it, you hear? I was finally getting somewhere. Don’t wanna lose my place.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, pointing. “And you—no drinking until you get back here. I ain’t pulling your ass out of the pokey tonight for some dumb DUI.”

He shot me the finger and peeled out.

I banged up the stairs and pushed into the house. Or tried to. The Great Wall of Sam stopped me just inside.

“Um,” he said, his face the color of bad oatmeal. “Dean. We’ve got company.”

I peeked over his shoulder. “What? Who?”

“Ah, the dulcet tones of Dean Winchester,” somebody said in British. “Goody. The gang’s all here.” The guy turned from the fireplace, his blond hair practically ablaze, and posed, one hand on the mantle, like he was in fucking _Vanity Fair_. “Evening, fellas.”

“Balthazar,” I said, the word like a big, rotten egg.

“Yes! Well spotted.” He clapped his hands at me, the officious prick. “Now tell me: where does your Mr. Singer keep his lamb’s blood?”

And just like that, my day went from bad to worse.

No, it went from bad to fucking _bizarre_.

________________

 

Yep. The bastard chucked us into another reality. No warning, no permission slip—he just picked us up by the collars and tossed us through a damn interdimensional window.

The studio set whatever was kookoo, all three-quarter walls and wires and people calling me by the wrong name. Hell, it was like a fucked-up carnival where the rides ran backwards and nobody but me and Sam seemed to notice.

So we split. 

We thought Padaleski’s house might give us a moment to ourselves, a moment free from of the Museum of Crazy. But shit, it was an acid trip, more like a set than the one we’d crash-landed in. And that was before fake Sam’s wife showed up. Jesus fuck.

Lucky for us, the woman had places to be.

We stood there, gaping, as Mrs. Genevieve Padalecki steamed past us, through the foyer, and out the gilded front door. 

“Dude,” I said, “I can’t believe you married fake Ruby!” 

“Not me, jackass,” Sam huffed. “Jared.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, making for the bar cart. “Whatever. Fake you obviously thought she was hot, too.”

Behind me, I heard Sam pacing like a giraffe with a Charlie horse. That was a sure sign he was freaked. And draining the glass I pushed in his hand in one long-legged gulp? Yep. Proof positive.

“I’m just—” Sam hiccuped. “This is really, really weird for me, ok?” 

I shrugged out of my coat and threw myself at Jared’s swanky couch. “Uh, for both of us here, man.”

Sam shook his head and got back to stomping. “No, Dean! It’s not the same for you. I mean, I’ve gotta pretend to be married to—to be in love with!—freaking _Ruby_.”

“Pretty sure her name is Gen,” I muttered to my whiskey.

“Like her name is the problem, dude! It’s just that—” Sam sputtered, ground to a halt. “Ruby, she’s like—she’s my biggest regret. Of everything.“ He blinked at me, long and loud. “Do you know what I’d give to go back and undo that? To say all the shit I should’ve said the second you got back from hell?”

Ok, this was getting squirmy. “Sam—”

He shifted, uneasy. “I don’t know if I can do this, man. Pretend to be Jared.” He gave up a runny smile. “I’m not that good an actor.”

“Neither is Jared, I bet.”

He snorted.

“Look,” I said, “If there was some way of zapping you out of this electric company clown show right now, I would, you know I would. But you gotta remember that this bullshit is only temporary, ok? We gotta blend in here, pretend to be these idiots for a few days until we can restage Balthazar’s spell, and then bam! We’re on the next Soul Plane back home.”

His head snapped up, his face suddenly hopeful. Uh oh. “There is someplace else we could go. For tonight, I mean.” 

“Dude, I’m not sleeping with the alpacas.”

He ignored me. “We could stay at your house. Fake soap opera you’s house, I mean.”

Damn it. I was never gonna live that down, was I?

“Yeah, sure,” I gritted. “Fine. Except we have no idea where this fluffy Jensen guy lives, genius.”

Sam grinned and flipped something out of his back pocket. “Huh. I bet it’s on his driver’s license.”

I jumped outta my seat. “Hey! You stole fake me’s wallet? You klepto!”

Sam waggled it over my head. “It was right there on his desk in your double-wide. Thought it might come in handy. And what do you know? I was right.”

I elbowed him in the stomach and snatched.

The license was from Texas, that much was simple—”Thank fuck he drives American!” I said—but the name on it wasn’t, exactly.

“Wait,” I said. “I thought not-me’s name was Jackles or Ackles or something.”

Sam peered over my shoulder. “That’s what it said on your trailer.” He smirked. “And on YouTube.”

“Shut up. So how come this thing says Ackles- _Collins_?”

The doorbell rang.

It wasn’t a normal doorbell, thought. Not a good ol’ American ding-dong. Nope. It was some godawful tinny remix of—

“Uh,” I said, still frowning at my fake license. Or fake me’s real license. Whatever. “ _Deep in the Heart of Texas_? You think Padaleski’s from there, too?”

Sam made for the door, wincing. “Guh. I hope so. Otherwise he’s just a sadist.”

I zipped back to the bar and was two shakes from two fingers when Sam said: 

“Oh. Hey Cas. I mean, uh—”

“Yeah,” this other voice said, breezy. “That one never gets old, Jared. Thanks.”

I spun around and holy _shit_! it was that weird guy from the set. He was dressed human this time—a long black coat, dark jeans, a button-down—and not in his Castiel get-up like before, but his face, man. His face was all Cas. Well, one version of him, anyway: he looked like he was ready to smite me.

Which after the day we’d had, getting tossed around like cosmic chew toys, put me right the fuck on the edge.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped.

Castiel—Misha?—just glared. “I was looking for you,” he said, like it was totally obvious.

“Me? Why?”

“Well,” Misha said, measuring out each syllable, nice and precise, “you left the set before we could talk, you didn’t answer your cell phone, and then you weren’t at home when I got there, so I called Clif and he said that he’d dropped you here, for some reason, and—”

“ _Home_?” me and Sam said, incredulous. 

And that’s when I noticed the ring on Misha’s finger. The way he was staring at my (ring-free) hand, pointed, and that plus the crazy name on my driver’s license—I did some quick addition, doubled checked it, and, yeah the total could only mean—

“Oh my god,” Sam said, a half step ahead. “You married fake Cas!”

My brain kind of broke for a second.  

Misha edging closer to me didn’t help, because I swear the dude was like a walking Chernobyl: this strange energy coming off him in waves and maybe that was the married thing? Bwuh. 

Again, it so did not compute.

Not-Cas and me, we were—?

"Look,” Misha said, and ok. It was easier when he was talking. He may have been Cas’ doppleganger, but he sure as fuck didn’t sound like him. “I know you’re pissed at me, Jen, but this”—he waved his free hand at the McMansion of it all—”seems a little extreme. You hiding out over here. No offense, Jared."

"None taken!" Sam beamed, all the brighter for my death glare. Because _Jen_? Seriously. Seriously?!

Misha squinted at me, then over at Sam. Back to me. “Wait. Why are you guys still in wardrobe?”

I froze. “W-wardrobe?”

He reached out and tugged at my shirt. “Aren’t you supposed to wear this for the scene in Bobby’s kitchen tomorrow? Christine’s going to pitch a fit.”

“Wear for the what?” I stammered, watching Misha’s fingers catch in my plaid. Make a fist. “I don’t know what you’re—“

Thank god Sam was on the ball. “Oh!” he said. “Yeah, our costumes! I mean, our wardrobe. Yeah. We were, uh. We were running lines. In, um, character.”

Misha snorted. Didn’t let go of my shirt. “Really. First day in two weeks that we get off set before midnight and you guys decide to run lines.”

Crap. That’s right. These Jared and Jensen cats couldn’t stand each other. Did Jensen get along with anybody? "Yeah,” I said, aiming for my inner James Lipton, “we're, uh. Trying to turn a corner in our relationship."

Now both of them were staring like I’d started speaking in tongues.

"Uh," I flailed, trying not to choke. Damn it. How the hell do actors talk? "What I meant was—our characters, you know, they're complicated, and we thought we should just—"

Misha was full-on frowning now, and he seemed so not stupid and kind of suspicious that, well: I panicked.

I grabbed the guy by the collar and kissed him.

Not subtle, not smooth, just all shove and slick, and Misha was surprised—I could feel him swallow a squawk—but then I bit his lip and he went Silly Putty in my arms. Kissed me back.

He tasted like cherries and green tea and had a tongue like a freaking black mamba, all slow sting and sweet poison, and shit, the noise he made when I bit his lip was worth the price of admission alone.

"Gah!" Sam was saying when I came up for air. "Hel- _lo_. Still here, guys.”

I ignored him, I had to, because Misha was zeroed in on me again, and it was even more freaking blinding from a nose-to-nose perspective.

“What was that for?”

I took a shot. “Hadn’t kissed you all day,” I said. “And I missed you.”

Something drifted across his face, suspicious, so I did it again. Kissed him. Softer this time. Tried to make my lips say _you can trust me because it’s me, it’s_ totally _me, Jensen, your husband, and not some look-a-like from a less douche-y world_.

I mean, the whole point was to blend in here, right? To look like part of the scenery. And if making out with Misha Collins was the price I had to pay to keep up that ruse, hell. I was only doing my part.

I heard a noise that may or may not have been Sam banging his head into the wall, I don’t know, because all I could focus on was Misha’s hand on my cheek, the way his words drifted over my chin.

“You’re in a strange mood.”

I shrugged. Gave him my best fuck-it-all grin. “Eh. What can I say? Been a weird day.”

“Hmmm,” Misha said. “I’m getting that sense.” His mouth snuck up in a smile, and he looked so freaking different from the force of pissed-off nature that had stormed through the front door that I kind of got it, for a second: what there was between this guy and Jensen.

“Still,” Misha said. “We do need to talk. And I’d prefer not to have an audience. No offense, Jared.”

“None taken!” Sam said again, muffled, and yeah, he was actually hiding his face in the curtains.

Misha turned, started tugging me towards the door. “Give Genevieve our best. And apologize to the llamas.”

“Alpacas,” I said. “They’re alpacas, dude.” Oh, crap: that reminded me of Sam’s Ruby-related freakout. He was the one who’d wanted to go to Jensen’s house in the first place, and here I was riding off without him.

I yanked Misha to a stop. “Hey. Uh. Jared. You gonna be ok?”

“Sure!” Sam said. He scooted over, shoved my jacket into my arms. “Yeah. I’m good, man. It’s cool.”

 _Yeah, right_ , I shot back with my eyes.

Sam shook his head, just a little. “See you tomorrow!” he said, fake cheerful, and pushed me over the landing. Out into the night.

With my _husband._

Oh shit, I thought, trailing Misha towards this horrible saggy Honda thing, ugh. What I wouldn’t give for a goddamn script.

Luckily, Misha was a crank-up-the-radio-and-drive guy, so I didn’t have to fake anything on the way home. On the way to Jensen and Misha’s house. Oh god.

I didn’t panic, exactly. It was more like—I had no freaking clue what to expect.

So pleasant surprise number one: their house was way better than Sam’s.

First of all, it looked like actual people lived there. Like, human people, instead of  actors. There were books on the floor and shoes by the door and the ceilings weren’t 50 feet high. And no giant portraits of anyone, either. No.

And the door Misha tugged me through opened into the kitchen, not some fake-ass foyer. A kitchen that seemed real, one with cheap magnets on the fridge and pegs by the door stuffed with coats and umbrellas. A recycling bin two shakes from overflowing, brown and green beer bottles battling with empties of wine. Pfft. Of course fake-me was too good for beer in a can. 

There were dirty dishes in the sink, too, mismatching placemats on the kitchen table. A box of Oreos on the stove and a rug in front of the sink worn down by two sets of feet.

Well damn. This was somebody’s _home_.

Yikes. Ok. Stop staring. I cleared my throat. “Kind of a mess, huh?”

Misha threw his keys on the counter and reached for my jacket. “Well,” he said. “It was your week to clean.”

He got the jacket off easy but kept one hand on my back, pressed between the blades of my shoulders.

“Yeah, but,” I said, started to, but then Misha’s hand went claw. He dug in his nails and even through my layers I could feel the heat of that hand, of the way Misha was touching me, the way he was kissing my neck, these little not-enough traces of tongue and teeth that made my knees knock.

Ok. Wait a minute.

“Hey, I—I thought you wanted to talk,” I said, maybe a little hoarser than I shoulda been. “This doesn’t seem like talking to me.”

Misha laughed, low and kinda dirty. “I don’t know. I think the body’s inherently rhetorical, don’t you?”

He rippled against my back before I could get out a _what the fuck_ _,_ his body this pretty wave of motion that peaked in the shove of his cock against my ass, god, and yeah, it felt fucking great, but this was not my beautiful house, this was not my beautiful husband, this sure as hell was not my life. Not my place to dig it when Misha’s hand snuck under my shirts and wove its way over my skin.

I mean, there’s blending in and then there’s taking advantage of an ok, admittedly attractive guy who thinks you’re the love of his life. I wasn’t sure which way this was falling. 

“Misha,” I said, aiming for firm. “This was your idea, the—”

“Oh,” he breathed, going slinky again, the cheating bastard. “You’re damn right it was.”

Between his hand and his hips, the brush of his lips, shit was getting a little hazy.

“We gotta talk about it,” I slurred. “The thing. ‘S important, yeah?”

His fingers drifted down my stomach, like dirty-minded snowflakes. “What thing, Jen? Hmm? Tell me.” He nipped at my neck and let his fingers catch on my belt. “I bet you can’t even remember what we were fighting about, can you?”

For the first time all day, I got to tell the damn truth. “I’ve got no fucking idea.”

He laughed and curled his hand over my crotch, pushing just enough to make me see stars. “Just to be clear," Misha said, soft. “You want me to unspool you right here, don't you? Tug your shirts off. Unzip your jeans.” He found the line of my cock and traced it like some pornographic cartographer. “Mmmm. Spread you out over the table and put my mouth all over your skin. Every part of you, Jensen. Your whole beautiful body unfolding under my tongue. Would you like that?"

I tried to fight it. I did. Some little part of my conscience that wasn’t smothered in Blue Eyes told me that I should push him away, should wiggle out of his arms and lock myself in the bathroom all night or something, anything to get away from the temptation of him, his hyper magnetic pull.

“I think you would,” he said, gravel road, and holy shit. That voice.

He sounded like Cas. Like Cas would if he were touching me, if he were doing his damndest to drive me good and out of my mind, and it wasn’t like I’d never thought about it before, a flash or two at night when I should’ve known better, but fuck, this was real, or almost, close enough, and that juxtaposition of Misha and Cas, Cas and Misha, was like peanut butter and chocolate—it melted the last of my defenses and damn it, I couldn’t resist him. 

I shivered, stem to stern, from my hair to my boots, and leaned back. Turned my face against Misha's cheek. “Yeah,” I managed. “I would."

He made a noise, deep and pleased. "Hmmm. This is different, Jen.” He hitched his hips and petted my cock at the same time, like a sexed-up Rube Goldberg machine. "I'm not saying that I object in any way, believe me. But I can't remember the last time you let me maul you like this, two steps from the back door. Barely inside the house at all. It’s fascinating. I like it.”

It was good, blackout good, having Misha palm me like a deck of cards, and all I could manage was to open my mouth and paint contrails under his ear.  

"Jesus," I said. "Yes.”

Misha sighed, pleased and put-upon. “I might have thought about this, a little. What I might do to you tonight when and if you ever got your head out of your ass.” He turned his nails against my skin, scratching roses into my ribs. “As unlikely as that may have seemed.”

I stretched into the thorns, my dick twitchy pleased in my jeans. “Really,” I managed. “That so?”

“It is,” Misha said, solemn. “And said plan might also have involved, may I say”—two teeth sharp and quick on my ear—“a bit of groveling on my part, some small admission of my own role in our little contretemps. One that might have—in my own mind, of course—reached its apotheosis in a protracted, time-bending blowjob that would’ve made a half-dozen deities weep.”

Guh. “So what you’re saying is that your damn plan or whatever was pretty much all sex.”

“Well,” Misha said again, almost thoughtful. “No. Less sex. More fucking.”

I reached back and grabbed his hair, twisted until I could kiss him sloppy sideways.

Misha pulled away, panting, his hair still caught in my fist. “Oh. And that’s what you want, baby. You want it here. You want me to bend you over the table, get on my knees and lick you open, hmmm? Get you nice and wet for my cock?”

My mouth moved, I think, but nothing even word-adjacent came out.

Misha hummed, low and contented, flexing his fingers in time with his words. “Yes. You look so pretty when you’re getting fucked. So pretty stretched out and around.” He kissed my throat, lush. “All those colors you give up when I touch you. You are cosmic in such moments, my love.”

Hell. I knew Misha’s voice, low and affectionate, even as it spewed out porn—that sure as hell wasn’t mine to hang on to. The whirlwind of love or whatever that was carefully knotted careful there, in each filthy word—that belonged only to Jensen. But it was hard to hear it, hard to be that close to him, and not want to grab onto the tails of that affection, to close my eyes and pretend that Misha was talking to me.

“Baby,” I said, my tongue taffy thick. “Fuck.”

He chuckled. “Maybe,” he said. “But not necessarily.”

And then I grokked that he’d worked my zipper down without any warning and now he was touching me flat out, now he was teasing my crown and stroking my shaft and obliterating my brain cells, one for each feather-light touch.

“Because I think you can come like this,” Misha said, his thumb curling over the head, slow and fucking deliberate. “In fact, I’m certain you can. Just like this. Just from watching me touch you.”

I twisted my body, writhing in Misha’s grasp. It was awesome and kind of terrible, how fast this guy had managed to wind me up. Mostly awesome. Kind of terrible.

“I just—” I whined. “ _Misha_. Don’t make me—”

His breath in my ear, a hot fog. “Yeah, you can. And you’ll like it. Like losing your shit in my hand, like getting your come all over me. Hmmm. And your wardrobe, too. God, yes. I want to see that.” His hips wrenched up like he couldn’t help it, like he was as damn well far gone as I was. “Wanna see you take Dean’s pants back to set when they’re sketched with your spunk. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Letting everybody see how hard I make you come.”

“Fuck,” I wheezed. I shoved my fingers in my mouth and sucked as Misha started growling, started making noises like Cas when he was really pissed off and about to break out the wings.

And that was it. I was done just being along for the ride.

I shot my hand down, wove my wet fingers through Misha’s, and went about changing the pace. Misha’s body went still, tight and hot behind me as we watched our hands tangle over my cock, jacking faster and faster.

“Jesus,” Misha said, a kaleidoscope of desire. “That’s good. God, oh, look at you. You don’t need my cock, do you? Just my hand. Just like this.”

He grabbed my thigh and ground into me and I got the picture, ok, like in freaking Cinemascope sound, of what I’d look like over the table, scrabbling past the salt shaker as Misha shoved into me, purring triumphant, how hard he’d fuck me, how good, and and oh no, oh shit, I—

“Come on,” Misha said to me, urgent, like a train about to plunge off a cliff. “That’s right. You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” He pressed his thumb under my crown, drew his finger over the top where I was dripping, fuck, my cock red and wet in his fist.

“Oh,” I said, watching myself swell, feeling my gut go tight. “Oh, fuck, baby, fuck, I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me.”

He groaned in my ear, a dark pulse that made my hips jerk. “Yes. Yes, darling. Let me have it. All of it, Jen. Come on, yeah, that’s it. Make yourself a mess for me.”

A shot of _oh Christ_ flew up my spine the same second I creamed Misha’s hand, thick and fucking everywhere, god, like a full-on _Backdraft_ of spunk.

“Yes,” I breathed over and over, like it was the only word I could remember. It kind of was there for a second. “Yeah, oh _fuck_ , oh. Yes.”

Misha dug his chin into my shoulder and I could feel him staring, feel him watching my cock sputter and strain as he stroked me through it, way the fuck above and beyond. God. My dick jerked again, valiant, but there wasn’t a damn thing left in the tank. It was all on me, all over my wardrobe. Jensen’s. And man, was Misha a fan of that.

“Fuck, Jen,” he said. “Look at this mess.” He nosed at my jaw and I could feel his grin like a brand as he turned his hand, smeared my come deep into my jeans, over the tails of my tshirt. “Tsk tsk. Whatever will the neighbors say?”

I turned my head, rubbed my mouth against his cheek. His face was a three-alarm fire, his breathing of the Big Bad Wolf variety. “They’ll say I’m a lucky, lucky man.”

He twisted and we kissed, long and filthy, until he shot his wet hand between us and made for his fly. I pushed him, got his back against the fridge, and stole his breath as he stroked himself, as he laughed against my mouth, as he leaned into my fingers and let me pull his hair. 

“That what you want?” I said. “You like that, sweetheart?”

He made a bright white noise and his knuckles bumped my stomach, the heat of his cock leaking through his fist. “I like _you_ ,” he said. “I love you, you beautiful idiot. Fuck.”

I grinned and caught his wrist, traced the blood beneath. “Not necessarily. I’m pretty sure you’re gonna come like this.”

He laughed, the sound ripped into hot little threads. “You’re goddamn right I am.”

I licked into his mouth and got a hand under his shirt. Traced the edges of his hips, the curve of his thigh, and he came with a start, out of nowhere, his kiss going sweet and slack as he lost it all over my shirt. His hands went tight on my sides and he held me like somebody had blown the airlock and I was the only thing keeping him from the vacuum of space.

“This is why I hate fighting with you,” he said, after, his hands still hot on my skin. “It’s such a fucking waste.”

I planted a kiss on his forehead. “Hell yes. We got way better things to do with our time. Clearly." 

He caught my chin, tipped my face down to meet him. “Mmm. Yes. But that’s not what I mean.” His eyes were different, darker now, heavy with sex and satisfaction. “Can we just agree, you and I, once and for-fucking-all, that getting pissed at each other over show stuff is pointless? That arguing about the consequences of other people’s creative decisions—shit we have no control over, mind—is an unequivocal waste of time?”

They’d been fighting about the show? About freaking _Supernatural_?! For fuck's sake.

I stroked his side, aiming for adorable distraction. “Sure. Yeah. Worst idea ever.”

“Jensen,” Misha said, a warning, his eyes narrow.

Uh oh. They’d had this discussion before, or something like it, hadn’t they. And something told me Jensen had been the one to welch on his side of the deal. Idiot.

So I went for the hard sell. “Yes,” I said. “You’re right. It’s incredibly pointless. I mean, who gives a shit about creative whatever? Or fucking TV period, huh?” I clutched Misha’s hips, grinning up into the blue gale. “Because see, what I think is, what matters is what happens between you and me. This. Right here.”

Misha, though, he didn’t blink. “So. You’re going to cancel that meeting with Sera.”

Shit. Who the hell was Sera? Some TV lady? “I’m, uh—?”

But Misha was still rolling. “And, _and_ , you’re not going to make any other attempts to quote unquote ‘save’ my job. We’re agreeing on that. Right here. Right now. Yes?”

Ok. This was clearly a Big Fucking Deal. Playing Argument Clinic was one thing, but agreeing to a bargain that involved legal employment and marriage and a whole host of crap that I’d spent most of my life actively avoiding? That was something else entirely. Shit.

Still. I’d kind of caused Jensen’s husband to accidentally cheat on him, sort of. So I owed the guy a solid. The least I could do was to leave his marriage better than I'd found it.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a deal.”

Misha squinted, uncertain. “Seriously. Don’t fuck around with me on this, Jensen.”

“I’m not,” I said. “Babe. I get it. You want me to cancel the meeting? It’s done.”

My fake husband reached for my hand, dropped a kiss into my palm, and another, and I could feel the tense fall away with each turn of Misha’s tongue.

“Thank you,” Misha said. He wove his fingers through mine, the clouds clearing from his face. “Look, I don’t know how else to say it. My life is better with you in it. I hope you know that. Has been since the first day we met.” A sketch of a smile. “Even though you went out of your way to be a dick to me, as I recall.”

“I was just nervous,” I said, ignoring the way my heart was beatboxing in my chest. “You were fucking gorgeous, man. Kind of knocked me for a loop.”

“You threw a script at my head in lieu of pulling my pigtails, is that it?”

Smooth, Jensen. “Something like that.”

Misha cupped my cheek. “Regardless of its questionable beginnings,” he said, “and your desire to intervene in my career to the point of madness: I love you, Jen. And any day I don’t talk to you, any hour I don’t see you, any moment I’m not touching you—that’s time wholly wasted, in my book.”

Well, shit.

I looked into Misha’s eyes and like my heart stopped.

In my whole life, my real one, nobody had ever said anything like that to me. Hell, as far as I knew, nobody had ever felt like that about me. Not even close.

Worse, I’d never known how bad I wanted it, needed it, that kind of love—needed somebody who loved me because of my bullshit, not in spite of it—until right then.

I stood there staring at Misha and wishing with all of my everything that he was Castiel. That it was Cas wrapping his hands around my face, Cas kissing me like he was drowning and I was the last bit of dry land.

I wanted Castiel so bad right then that it _hurt,_  like a stitch in my side that ate up my whole body.

Misha grinned against my mouth and wound his arms around my neck and then it was like a freaking anvil, a boulder in my gut that made it hard to breathe.

Oh god. I didn’t just want Cas. I loved him.

I loved his sharp tongue and his ratty trenchcoat and his determination to keep me out of it, whatever bullshit he was dealing with in heaven. He was an ass and a compassionate bastard and obtuse and beautiful and I would have given a limb for it to be him humming into my throat, his body warm and sleepy sex against mine.

What the hell. How hadn’t I seen it, how I felt, when it’d been right in front of my face? I mean, my hands on him the night before, the way he’d looked at me right before he disappeared—god, if anybody was an idiot, it was me. Why did it take being chucked into an alternate whatever and coming face to face with another him, ish, for the whole fucking thing to be clear?

“What is it?” Misha murmured. “You drifted away there for a second. You all right?”

I kissed his cheek, pulled him into me, tight. “Yeah. Just tired. You wore me out, I guess.”

“Mmmhmm.” I felt his fingers on the hem of my spunk-ridden shirt, felt him smile. “Your wardrobe is toast.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay obeisance to Christine on your behalf. Any curses she places on our firstborn were totally worth it.”

The moment got the best of me and I pressed my face into his neck. Pretended that he smelled of ozone and self-righteousness instead of smoke and sweat. “I hate fighting with you,” I said. “That’s all. I fucking hate it.”

He turned his hands across my back in slow, ragged circles. “Let’s try to avoid Battle Royales for a while, then. Difficult, I know. A prospect nigh on impossible. But maybe we could try.”

I closed my eyes and let myself be lulled by his touch. It wasn’t the right one, not the one I really wanted, but it was good, reassuring nonetheless.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, we can try.”

 

________________

 

The next morning, I took two steps into TV’s funhouse and ran smack into Sam.

“Hey!” he said, chipper. He had a big white box in his arms and he didn’t look like his newly-repaired soul had ruptured, so. Good sign.

“Hey, Sammy." 

He bounced in his boots. “Got a lead on something. I think we can run the spell today.”

My hope spiked. “Really? What is it?”

He waggled the box at me. “Bone of a lesser saint, remember? I got one.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Ugh,” Sam said. “Don’t ask, ok? It wasn’t technically illegal.”

I laughed. Only Sam would get squirmy about breaking the law in an alternate universe. “Nice. Glad your night was productive.”

“Yeah.” He looked sheepish. “Locked myself in Jared’s study right after you left, actually. I never even heard Genevieve come home.” He shrugged. “Anyway. How’s married life treating you?”

I looked at the floor, at the fake ceiling, at my boots. Totally not turning red. Much.

I mean, what the hell was I gonna say? _My not-husband gave me a hand job for the ages?_ Or, _hey, I figured out that I’m in love with my best friend who happens to be an angel and also currently resides in another dimension?_ Please.

“Ok,” I said. “It was fine.”

“Uh huh.”

I looked up and Sam was pointing, poking his finger under his jaw and smirking like a motherfucker. “You, ah, you might wanna ask the makeup person to cover that hickey, dude. And that one. Pretty sure TV Dean doesn’t get those.”

“You got something to say, Sammy?”

He grinned. “Only, I’m glad you had a good night, Jackles.”

“It’s Ackles-Collins, asshat.”

“Hey,” he said, “aren’t those different clothes? Where’s your wardrobe?”

“Uh—”

“Jen,” someone said behind me, then somebody grabbed my belt and I spun, turned in a quick circle only to get a mouthful of Misha Collins. Hello.

“Hi,” he said, when I could breathe again.

“Hi.”

“They changed the schedule,” he said. “I came to tell you. Ben’s taking me on location today and tomorrow. They want to shoot some stuff for the episode he’s directing before the weather gets bad.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sure.”

“I’ll be home on Sunday night,” he said. “Maybe early Monday, at the latest.”

I grinned. He may have been a little weird, this guy, he may not have been Cas, but that was kinda the point: he’d helped me see what wasn’t there, what was missing from the script of my real life. “Ok, baby. Do your thing. But hurry back.”

Misha kissed me again, deep and deliberate. I wrapped my arms around him and went along for the ride one last time. There may have been wolf whistles somewhere. And some clapping. Not totally clear.

“Love you,” he said. “Behave yourself. And be sure to call Sera to cancel.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

He smiled at me, this million dollar dazzle for a party of one. “Thank you.” He raised his voice. “Keep an eye on him, Jared.”

Oh, shit. Sam.

When I looked back, though, Sam wasn’t cringing. He wasn’t even blushing. Nope. He was grinning like he’d just hit a triple word score. “Sure thing,” he said. “Will do, uh, Misha.”

Misha gave me another squeeze and ducked away, dark hair bobbing, moving to music that only he could hear. I was glad I’d gotten to hum a few bars of it, too.

I turned around and Sam was still giving me teeth. “What are you smiling at, smiley?” I said. “This ain’t a toothpaste commercial.”

Sam shook his head, still suspiciously peppy. “Heh. Don’t give the universe any ideas.”

I snorted and snatched the box out of his hands. “Ok,” I said, “let’s get the fuck out of Oz already, Dorothy.”

 

________________

 

It took two days, three fistfights, and one poor dead PA for us to track Virgil down and chase him back to our side of the multiverse. Where we ran smack into an international angel convention outside of some crummy motel.

And there, right in front of me, was Cas. 

Part of me, no joke, wanted to push past Raphael and the British sleazeball and lay one on Castiel right there. But that would have been weird, what with the general _I’m gonna destroy you and yours_ vibe that hung over the place. So I bided my time.

“So, um,” I said, after lady Raphael beat it, after Balthazar had proved he wasn’t a total goon. “Cas. Can we talk?”

He was haloed weird by a streetlamp, like he’d been carved out of shadow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just for a minute. If you don’t mind.”

Cas’ face was unreadable, a Rubix cube set to white. “All right. Just for a minute.”

He whammied us to Bobby’s living room and we stood there for a minute, Sam and me, a little dumb from the angel express. Sam looked at me. I looked at him.

“You know what?” Sam said. “I’m gonna let you guys talk. Why don’t you do that, ok? Yeah.”

He made Road Runner and closed the door behind him, not quite hiding his grin.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “My time is short.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s funny. So’s mine.”

I caught him by the back of the neck, a startled bird, unaware, and laid my mouth over his, just enough to get a feel of it, what it was like to kiss him. I felt his hands on my elbows, resting there, curling, holding on. Then he opened his lips a little, like the first peek of dawn, and brushed his tongue against mine.

We stood there for a minute, passing these gentle kisses back and forth. I think I was holding my breath.

“I love you,” I said, brave. More than a little stupid. “I just wanted you to know that.”

He sighed, this long, gorgeous sound, and slid his hands up my arms, over my shoulders. “That’s a very good thing to know.”

He was tucked up against me now, cool and bright. “That doesn’t mean I’m ok with you keeping stuff from us,” I said. “Or keeping us from stuff.”

“Protecting you.”

I ran my fingers under his jaw. “Tomato, tom _ato_. I still don’t like it. Doesn’t change the way I feel about you, though.”

Cas kissed me, bold, like a shot of strong coffee, and then drew back. Stared into my eyes, stern. “There are things I need to tell you, Dean. That I should have told you before. I want to. It’s important that I do.”

I bumped his nose with mine. “Good,” I murmured, painting the sound across his chin. “Great. You mind if we make out for a while first?”

“We may argue, when I tell you,” he said, a sketch of a frown. “I’m certain we will. I find it unlikely that we’ll agree as to the best course of action.”

I traced his lips with my tongue and he licked into my mouth, careful and sweet.

When I could, I said: “Pretty sure that’s the way it’s going to be, Cas, with you and me.”

He laughed, an echo like bells on a cold night. “Fighting or kissing?”

“Yeah,” I said, my fingers on the buttons of his shirt, my smile tucked into his. “Exactly.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story began its life as something very different. Cheers to its original co-progenitor, thejenblu, and to cymbalism and deadpai for cheerleading ancient versions of this tale. And many, many thanks to areiton for their insightful beta of this incarnation.


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